


complement

by DrSchaf



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Religious Content, Sibling Incest, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-10 08:28:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12295293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrSchaf/pseuds/DrSchaf
Summary: Murphy reaches over the edge, letting his hand dangle until Connor grips it. The contact is painful like he forgot to wear his skin, like he's raw all over, inside and out. He links their fingers. “I know yer not an angel,” he whispers. “Not one of His. Yer mine.”Another wave crashes through him, and Connor waits until he's done shaking, not letting go of his hand. “Yeah,” he says, and that is all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fandom lacks the usual tropes and I won't stand for it any longer. So here we go: a Soulmate-AU.
> 
> I'll upload one chapter per day :)
> 
> If you haven't already: please look at the tags before reading.

Connor will be angry, but he'll also be too drunk to do shit about it, so Murphy lines up the needle and pushes the plunger down.

A flood of lava shoots through him, burning his veins until they turn to ash—only, they never do. He isn't stupid. Afterward, he pulls out the needle and fumbles with his belt until it snaps loose from his arm, and then he sinks back against the cushions and lets himself be washed away. At least until Connor stumbles out of the bathroom, walks by on unsteady legs, and drops on his own bed.

By the door, always the one by the door.

He looks over. Murphy can't see, but he knows. On days like this, it's a curse. _Soulmates_. As useful as a rubber crutch in their society that tolerates each and all but will only allow Soulmates to marry. Go fucking figure who's never getting married.  
  
“Ye said ye wouldn't,” Connor says, voice hoarse like he's been throwing up again. He probably has, with the way he's been drinking.  
  
“Didn't.” For a moment, he has to hold his breath. Then it's okay again. “Said I wouldn't do it where ye can see.” His eyelids have weights on them, but instead of being pulled down, they're being held open. They're dry, and he can't blink.  
  
Connor's head floats into view, stinking like sick. “I fucking hate this, ye know I do. Yer gonna shoot yer brain off and leave me here on my fucking own. How much did ye take? Murph. Murph, blink for me. Oh, for fuck's sake.”

He'd never shoot up all the way with Connor near. The bastard knows, he's only whining because he's fucking drunk. And he wouldn't leave him alone anyway. “Go 'way,” he manages, and then something rattles his bones. He can't look down, but after a moment or two, Connor comes up again, eyes red and puffy and lonely. Well. They are, now.  
  
“Turn on yer side.” Something pulls at his legs. Pulling hard—taking off his _skin_. “Murph. Lift up.” He's bone only, raw and bloody. He doesn't dare to take a look. “Bloody- Murphy, come on.” Connor is up by his head, looking awful and shoving at him. He loves him so much he has to hold his breath again. “Can't ye or don't ye want to?”  
  
“What time is it?”  
  
“Dunno.” Connor disappears from view, and Murphy lets himself be moved and shoved and prodded and pulled; up on his side, shoes off, jeans off, a pillow under his head and knees bent. It's a ritual, not a good one, but familiar enough for him to know what's coming next. His skin knows too, breaking out in goosebumps and crawling at the same time.  
  
With Connor's fingers against the Mark, the calm comes.  
  
Feeling sick and grateful, Murphy lets himself be washed away for a second time. Muscles he didn't know he pulled taut loosen while others lock up just because of the warmth spreading out from his thigh, carrying the calm. When it reaches his heart, he'll be able to close his eyes again. He could sleep. Maybe Connor could as well. He does it sometimes, falling asleep against the Mark even though it should be uncomfortable, that high on his thigh. High enough to be hidden by any clothes—except for that one memorial time in secondary school when his trunks rucked up in the public pool, but since then he hasn't really been swimming, and as long as he stays on his back, he doesn't even have to fear its detection while having sex.  
  
Which is out of question nowadays anyway.  
  
“Murph?”  
  
Connor's fingers stay where they are, and though Murphy hasn't looked at it in a mirror in ages, he knows Connor traces the lines of his name. Curved letters, thin like he wrote them with barely any pressure, and big all the same, stopping just shy from curling around the edges of his thigh. Good thing the Mark sits horizontal, or he'd never be able to wear shorts.  
  
“Murph.”  
  
“Mh.”  
  
“Don't do it again.” It's a whisper, it always is. He never says yes and Connor never says anything else, after.  
  
The calm reaches his heart, and Murphy closes his eyes with a sigh.

*

The last time he touched his own name, they had turned six and Connor had decided he was a grown man and he wouldn't sit with his pants down just for Murphy's sake. It's for the better, Ma had said, and then she'd never said anything about it ever again.

He still remembers the first doctor, mostly because it was the last who ever knew; she took them to separate doctors from there on, sitting on the bus for hours to hide what's on their skin. That first one said he'd do some research to see if anyone had come across twins with the same problem. That's what Ma had said. She never talked about his disapproving frown, his hesitancy to even consider the issue, but he saw and he knows Connor saw, and she never made them go back there again. Officially, he guesses they're still waiting for those research results.  
  
In the bathroom, Connor retches. Murphy huffs and folds his clothes, trying to make them fit into his bag even though they never fit and he always has to make use of Connor's bag, too. He doesn't own more clothes, and still the result is always the same. The Lord and His ways, go figure.  
  
“Fuck.” It's quiet and thin, muffled through the closed door, and Murphy is inside in an instant, squatting down to shove his hands under Connor's armpits. With a groan, he heaves Connor up, leans him against the sink to wash up, and walks out again.  
  
The tab starts to run and Murphy bites his lip, turning around and packing Connor's stuff, too. It's for the best, he never does it right when he's sick with hangover, and Murphy has, in all honesty, no interest nor is he in the mood to watch him fumble with it today.  
  
Today is the off-day. One of the two off-days he gets, and after, he can use again without getting addicted. That's the deal he made with _himself_ and not with Connor who wants the off-days to never end and who's on his way to becoming a piss artist, coping with their lives and decisions in the exact way he does; badly. He doesn't take orders or suggestions about what he needs to keep himself sane from someone that.  
  
As if he heard, Connor comes out of the bathroom on shaky legs, face pale and eyes averted. He makes a wobbly beeline for his rosary, closing his fingers around the beads like he thinks his bloody alcohol level will lower itself because of it.  
  
“I packed,” Murphy says, stating the obvious and fiddling with the zipper. “And I'm driving.”  
  
“Really?” Connor goes for a glare, looking pathetic. “Where to?”  
  
“Dunno, somewhere around. Wisconsin or whatever. Or Wyoming? I don't know. Look at the map.” Connor sways in place, looking at him with a serious face, and Murphy's heart is on fucking fire. “Need help?” he asks quietly, waiting for the nod, waiting for the head shake.  
  
In the end, he drives the car right up to the door and gets both the bags and Connor inside, arm around his back and the door already opened. He checks them out, looks at the map - Wyoming it is - and drives off, pretending he can't see Connor's hand twitching towards him like he expects him to flash his Mark right there and then.  
  
Turns out, the first doctor was right all along, both with his disapproval and his hesitancy to think about their bond despite not knowing there'd come a day when Murphy found out about the possibility of losing his brother. That jump from the rooftop was over too fast, but the basement—it wasn't, and the word Soulmate became a whole different meaning. The doctor couldn't have known the problem wasn't a problem because they're twins. The problem lies with him and his depraved thoughts, his love for his own brother and the Mark on him without ever seeing or touching it. The problem lies with Connor's hand straying to his own name for entirely different reasons, a different love. Something no one would frown upon.  
  
“Yer good?” Connor rumbles from the side, shades on his face and head resting against the seat. For all he knows, Connor looks relaxed. Bastard is good at pretending.  
  
“Why wouldn't I be.”  
  
“Because yer pulling a face.”  
  
Murphy licks his lips, quickly glancing over before he turns his eyes back on the road. “Just thinking about our next move. We're low on money, can't keep this up for long.”  
  
The seat groans under Connor's weight when he shifts to look out of the window. “That's what we're going with now?”  
  
“Aye.”  
  
Connor snorts. “All right, let's go with the lie,” he says, pausing for a beat like he doesn't know how stubborn his own fucking brother is. Then he huffs. “I can work. Tomorrow?”  
  
“Too hangover for today?”  
  
Without looking, Connor reaches out and manages to find his arm with eerie accuracy. “I'm not working when the marks on yer arm are still fresh like that.”  
  
“Connor-”  
  
The hand squeezes, firm and rough against his skin. “Wake me when ye want to switch up.”

*

It goes like this: drug dealers are easy to spot and even easier to rob, and when everything goes smoothly and they swear on the Lord they'll give up their business, no one dies. That's the plan. It doesn't always work. Still, Murphy only takes drugs from those who plan to repent - it's the righteous thing to do to relieve them of their burden - and they still pray over them. It's mostly out of habit, and Murphy pretends it isn't.

Today, it's going to be easy; an average dealer with a small to nonexistent gang who set up shop in a dingy bar nearby. With Connor being himself again - he stays abstinent when Murphy stays clean—or maybe it's the other way around, he doesn't remember - they'll soon get ready, and if luck is on their side, money won't be a problem for a while.  
  
“Murph.”  
  
They're in the car. “What?” Murphy stares out of the window, throat closing up. They weren't in the car just a moment ago. They were in the motel. He was in the _bathroom_.  
  
“What is with ye? Why yer sitting there like that?”  
  
“What time is it?”  
  
Connor stares at him, his frown deepening the longer the silence stretches on. “Just past 8,” he says, lowering both his chin and his voice. “Why yer always asking for the time now?”  
  
Shit. Shit, shit. “Just asking, don't make a big deal out of it.” He licks his lips, gloved fingers flexing to inconspicuously feel for his gun. It's not in his jeans. Where did he put it, he can't go and ask Connor, bloody fuck-  
  
“What's the fucking matter?”  
  
“Nothin',” Murphy snaps and immediately after, he feels guilty and wishes himself back to his bed, lights out, Connor behind him, fingers on his Mark and _calm_ wafting through him.  
  
Connor's hand comes up, holding his gun. “Yer good? We can come back another time, that crook won't be going anywhere.” He hovers, gloves creaking around the handle. “We've got enough money to last us a few more days, no reason to push our luck if yer not feeling up to it.”  
  
“'s fine,” Murphy mutters, reaching out to take the gun. “I'm not feeling not up to it,” he adds, pulling a face at Connor and then some more when Connor snorts.  
  
“All right, then.”  
  
There's a pause.  
  
“Why yer still sitting there?”  
  
Connor clicks his tongue, a fucking annoying habit he should've grown out of decades ago. “Something is the matter with ye.” He glances at the gun in own his lap. “I'm not feeling comfortable doing this.”  
  
“The target?” Sweat tickles on his brow. “Or with me.”  
  
There's another pause, heavy and uncomfortable.  
  
“We're doing this because ye need more, no?” Connor's hand twitches towards him, connecting with his arm way softer than he anticipated. “Let's go back. We've got enough money for now, we'll think of something.”  
  
Despite it all, Murphy smiles, but his heart stutters at the same time, shriveling until he thinks he's going to die right there and then, withered away just because he loves him so. “Yer not drinking then, either,” he says gently, holding Connor's gaze and seeing it the moment Connor decides to pull away. Murphy nods, flexing his arm against the loss of contact, and tries to make the next words count. “St. Patrick's Day's coming up. Ye remember the last one?”  
  
Connor flinches.  
  
“I do. One year, Con, an' look at us. I'm not gonna spend that day sober. If ye make me, I'll have to think about something more drastic.”  
  
“The fuck yer saying?”  
  
“Ye know.” Murphy swallows and lowers his voice. “Don't make me.”  
  
Connor lets out something that sounds like it's supposed to be a laugh, rough and humorless. “Yer fucking awful,” he says. “Gonna put this on me, make me responsible for yer life?”  
  
“No,” Murphy says quietly, “I'm saying I couldn't sit in a motel room sober, remembering the last time and knowing it's all gone. We'll never get it back and I can't- I don't want to _think_ of it. Connor, I couldn't.”  
  
They go.  
  
This time, the dealer dies, and Murphy breaks his own principles and takes the stash anyway.  
  
Back at the motel, Connor flushes it down the toilet. He leaves a small rest, placing it on the table between their beds and shoving the cash in his own bag.

*

Sometimes he dreams about his name on Connor's skin, and when he reaches out to trace the letters, the skin surprisingly soft and furry, warm when he drags his fingertips over the small Mark, he knows it's a dream. If it were a memory, he'd remember even softer skin and no hair and not a dark room or a hand reaching out under the covers. The memory isn't shameful; what his dreams shape out of it, that's the vile part.

The last memory itself is fuzzy with age, and since he hadn't thought of it as significant back then, he didn't pay as much attention to the details, the shape of the letters or the actual size of it. He would've, had he known he wouldn't be allowed access to it again. All he remembers is warmth spreading through him unlike the one flooding his body when Connor touches his own Mark. It's different, it's bound to be, and it makes him long for something he has practically no knowledge of.  
  
Connor walks past, a bag in each hand and a sigh pushing past his lips. “Yer coming?”  
  
Murphy nods, averting his eyes under the pretense of looking over the room before they leave for good. The small packet Connor left him is secure in the pocket of his jeans and crinkles promisingly when he smooths his hand over it. Frequently. Just in case.  
  
Outside, Connor starts the car, and Murphy can picture his listless face without needing to see through the wall. With a sigh of his own, he closes the door behind him and wiggles the key in Connor's direction to remind him, thick that he is, that they've got to check out before they can actually leave.  
  
By the time he plops into the passenger seat, Connor yawns and holds out his half-finished smoke.  
  
Their fingers brush.  
  
“Two towns over should be far enough, I suppose. Maybe three, depending on the motel situation?”  
  
Murphy puts the smoke between his lips, nodding and then nodding with more vigor when Connor doesn't look away or starts to actually drive. “What?” he asks at length, self-conscious all of a sudden.  
  
“Yer hand is shaking.”  
  
It is. It's been one day. “Yeah,” Murphy says, taking another drag. “Guess I'm hungry.”  
  
The car rolls out of the parking lot, crunching over gravel, and the filter tastes like him. It always did, they always shared, and he wouldn't have noticed.  
  
“We stop somewhere, get something to eat,” Connor says after a while, slow as if he's still puzzling over the mystery of him being hungry. More likely, over the lie. “Ye know what time it is?”  
  
Murphy smiles down at his legs. “Nah, but I didn't know before either.” Nor about the damp filter or the way the sun catches in Connor's hair, making it shimmer like it never does without. Before the basement, at least. When everything crumbled. “Didn't check before we left.”

*

By the time they check in, it's morning and the new motel is just as shabby as the last one, and he couldn't care less. The bloody shaking cancels out his hunger and his mouth is dry _and_ full of saliva, and Connor has that look about him, making him seem as tall as a mountain and somehow fragile at the same time. He will touch him tonight, and then the shaking will calm down, too.  
  
Sometimes, fleeting and pointless, Murphy wonders whether Connor would still do it if he knew. About him and the hunger and the heat and the dreams about a Mark hidden all the way up his leg, such a private place that he almost feels overwhelmed with the urge to put his _mouth_ there. It's impossible, but Connor would, he thinks, go on like he does even if he knew. He likes to pretend, that stoic brother of his, but he's not only touching the Mark for him, he's also doing it for himself, though the extent of Connor needing it is probably—less.

But Connor doesn't know what it feels like to be touched by his Soulmate.

It's been bloody ages, and the mere thought of having to go so long without it brings out a cold shiver on his back. Or maybe it's the lack of drugs.  
  
“Where are ye, mh?”  
  
“Musing.” Murphy bites at his thumbnail. “Could use a-” beer, he wants to say, a mean little jab just because Connor sees through his moods, but then the TV turns black with a hiss. They sit in the sudden silence, still looking at the dark screen as if staring hard enough will bring the device back to life. Connor stretches to turn on the bedside lamp—it's no good either.

“Power outage.”  
  
“'m tired anyway,” Murphy says, eying the silent AC. “It's gonna get bloody hot real quick.”  
  
Connor sighs like an old man, eyelids drooping when he walks to the window, opening it and pulling the drapes. “Nothing to be done about it.” Outside, a police car speeds by and someone stomps past the window, loudly complaining about the lack of TV.  
  
It's not as comfortable going to sleep in the morning, and the lack of darkness is only one of many reasons Murphy stalls, frowning at himself in the mirror and brushing his teeth until they're as clean as they can get. Connor won't touch him tonight, because it isn't _tonight_. Sleep won't come easy and the shaking won't ease off either. And it'll be fucking hot.  
  
Connor is down to his boxers, sidestepping him to take a piss. Murphy glares at the back of his head and spits, rinsing his mouth until Connor's foot comes into view and begins to tap a rhythm against the tiles. Keeping his eyes on Connor's toes, Murphy straightens, curling his fingers around the toothbrush.

The shaking reaches his brain and for a second, he draws empty.  
  
“Will ye move,” Connor says slowly.  
  
Murphy does, feeling manic. “What time is it?” He titters and turns away, and then he turns back and shakes his head when he sees Connor ready to go off. “Was a joke,” he says lamely, and finally puts the toothbrush away.  
  
“Funny.” Connor nods, turning off the tap. “My funny brother. What a blessing.”  
  
“Shut it.”  
  
He plops down on his chosen bed and tries to get rid of his clothes while already lying, almost pulling a muscle in the process. On the other bed, Connor turns away with raised eyebrows, shoulders tense somehow, like the following silence.  
  
When he manages to kick off his clothes after all, Murphy shoves his shaking hand under the pillow and licks his lips, eyes fixed on Connor's naked back.  
  
If he had the Mark there, he'd be all over him all the time. Though, he'd want him to wear a shirt at all times, too. As insane as that would be. Marks are considered private, not indecent. Connor's Mark is both, and he can't stop fucking thinking about it and the different the ways he could reveal it. Flashing images of Connor in his head; shoving his boxers down, parting those legs and diving in, right up to that crease, sweaty and musky and intimate, clothing his _teeth_ around it—  
  
“Night.”  
  
Murphy grunts back and rolls onto his stomach, cock pressing uncomfortably against the lumpy mattress. He shoves his other hand under the pillow too. Fucking shaking.

*

Ages ago, back when the mere thought of mirrored tattoos would've made him scoff and flip off whoever suggested it, he was angry for a while. Mostly at the Lord, sometimes at Ma. Never at Connor, though his brother was on the receiving end of a few resentful thoughts. The problem: secondary school meant the first people he actually knew starting to find their Soulmates, and it had dawned on him that he'd never have something of his own.  
  
They shared a room, their Ma, their school and friends and birthday and the bloody womb. And their souls.  
  
There would never be anything belonging to him alone, he's one of a pair in every sense there is, and it sent him reeling.  
  
He didn't think about it again until his first girlfriend and then his second, lasting all of ten days and making him run around with a blush for a whole month. Connor didn't draw level. He just didn't, never, not even in the anonymous towns they rush through nowadays, where no one knows they're related in case the Mark shows on accident.  
  
The hand on his shoulder is rough. Without the physical labor they used to do for years, it's getting softer, callouses disappearing along with its strength. Murphy pushes up into the palm, squeezing his eyes shut against the sun trying to blind him forever.  
  
“Murph, ye heard what I said?” The hand rubs a little, digging in like Connor plans to give him a massage. Which would be so very nice.

Blinking his eyes open, Murphy tries to focus on the words coming out of Connor's mouth, but his mind hasn't had time to wake up properly. He holds up his hand, palm sticky in the bloody heat. “Again.”  
  
Connor sighs. It sounds a bit like a laugh. “I'm saying that I will go out for a while. Ye sleep on, all right? I'll be back with food.” Connor moves to stand, and Murphy finds himself moving after him without conscious thought.  
  
“I could come with,” he says while he lies back down, and then he closes his eyes so he doesn't have to see Connor's eye roll. Or whatever he's doing. Not agreeing, at least.  
  
Something scrapes over the table and there's a jingle, then Connor says, “Sleep.” The door falls shut behind him.

Murphy tries to follow the half-order thinking he won't fall asleep, and the next second, he opens his eyes and it's pitch black and Connor closes the door to the bathroom.  
  
He craves a smoke like nothing else, so he peels himself out of the covers with a disgusted moan, stumbling to where he believes the table to—he is blinded.  
  
“Jesus,” Connor barks, pointing the fucking flashlight at his face. “I thought ye were sleeping. Power's still out. Hail Mary full of grace.”  
  
“Put that thing out of my face and shine some fucking light here, I need a smoke.”  
  
Connor huffs, illuminating the table. “Got us burgers and a milkshake for ye. Strawberry.”  
  
“After.” Murphy plops down on the chair and lights the smoke with useless hands. The idea of a milkshake, even the image of it sitting on the table, only the outline of it, really, since Connor seems set on burning out his eyeballs, sets his stomach on edge with an uneasy rumble.  
  
Connor sits down next to him, and Murphy doesn't need to see him to know he's sporting a frown. Be that the Mark or the usual closeness of twins, who fucking knows.  
  
“Did ye drink yers already?” Murphy asks to fill the silence, watching on as Connor sets up the light so it's pointing at the ceiling. In the beam of light, the smoke curls up nicely, and Connor isn't answering. “Don't they have backup generators?”  
  
Connor huffs, face glowing when he lights a smoke. The lighter snaps shut and his face disappears back into the shadows like he's a magical being of some kind, swathing himself in darkness. Fuck, he's beautiful.  
  
“Yer done?”  
  
Murphy stares, uncomprehending.  
  
“I'd feel better if ye ate. Ye've slept all day and-”  
  
“I _will_ , all right,” Murphy gripes. “Just let me finish my smoke in peace.”  
  
An orange dot flares up, and then Connor rushes the smoke out in that aggregated way he does, all fast and noisy. Murphy stubs out his own, making to stand.

“I'm gonna take a shower,” he says, not even finished when Connor's hand clamps down on his arm.  
  
“Eat, for fuck's sake. I'll get the other flashlight.”  
  
Murphy plops back down, eying the paper bag. Then he sits in the dark with Connor behind him rummaging through their bags, and he figures it can't be that bad when he's not seeing it, so he takes out the burger and starts to eat.  
  
For a while, Connor fumbles around, swearing under his breath and opening and closing each bag at least two times while Murphy focuses the majority of his brainpower on chewing. It's somehow comfortable, here in the dark. At least the temperature is down now that the sun set, though he's still a bit sweaty. Disgusting, actually. Sticking to the plastic of the chair.  
  
“How the fuck are we without batteries? Did ye use the last one? Why didn't ye get fucking new ones?”  
  
Murphy swallows the last of his burger, nauseous and full. “'s just a flashlight. We'll make do.”

He's sitting in the shower.  
  
The flashlight stands on the sink, pointing at the ceiling. The door is open, and Connor bumps around in the main room, swearing.

He's going to be sick.  
  
“Connor,” he says roughly, and then Connor is there and the water is burning on his skin and Murphy shivers. “I didn't,” he says. “I _wasn't._ ”  
  
The water shuts off and Connor crouches next to the stall, towel over his thighs. “Again?” he asks, soft and gentle without any accusation in his tone. Murphy bristles, directing his glare at Connor's hairy leg.  
  
“I think I'm gonna throw up.”  
  
Connor rushes inside, bare feet slipping on the wet tiles while he wraps the towel around his shoulders and fists the ends over his chest.

They're out, and Murphy forgets to be nauseous with it all, warm and heavy all of a sudden. The burger stays where it should be, and a few minutes later, all of it is like it should be; he's in bed, covers drawn up to his hips due to the lack of air conditioning. Behind him, Connor's forehead presses against his back, breathing against him, drying the rest of the dampness. Under the covers, his hand is on his name.  
  
“They're building a mall, down the road a ways,” he says, quiet in the dark. “Hit something they shouldn't have, and fixing it will take a few days.”  
  
Murphy closes his eyes, focusing on the calm spreading through him. “How do ye know?”  
  
“I talk to people. It's called socializing, ye should try it some time.”  
  
“Shut up,” Murphy mutters, shoving back against Connor's hand until his fingers spread out over the Mark again. “Doesn't matter, we won't be staying until it becomes a bother.”  
  
Connor hums, fingers slowing down until Murphy knows he's tracing the letters again. “Could be a good spot,” he says, and it comes out so quiet, Murphy frowns at once. “For after.”  
  
“After.”  
  
“It's going to be the last time, no?” The hand falters. “Murph.”  
  
The shaking builds up in his hands, running up in a mighty sprint until he's shaking all over and none of it has anything to do with the lack of drugs. Then bed dibs and the blanket almost slips off, and Connor is in front of him, breathing against him in the darkness. The pale glow of the moon is the only source of light, not even a bloody streetlight anywhere, and Murphy can barely see his face, but he doesn't need to. He opens his mouth, and Connor beats him to it.  
  
“It's quiet here,” he says, quiet too, “It's doable. We hole up here for as long as it takes, we've got the money for it.”  
  
It's intimate enough Murphy almost shares his fear of what would happen if he's not strong enough after all, despite being so very careful all this time. Or his fear of ridding his body of chemicals while his mind already twists to find a way to keep going like he used to. There's a reason he started, it won't magically be better once he's clean. The hurt will be there, and he'll have to find other ways to handle it, and if there were another way, he would've found it.

He would've. He looked, he looked everywhere, and nothing helped.

In the end, he doesn't say it, but he feels vulnerable enough to try to share the blame. “Will ye be drinking tomorrow?”  
  
Something puffs against him, maybe a laugh. “I won't,” Connor says, and then he stumbles around the bed and retakes his previous position, lowering his voice until Murphy has to hold his breath to hear him. “Never did it when I knew ye'd... do that.” He shifts, giving Murphy the opportunity to get his fucking head in order.  
  
It's the truth.

Here he is, trying his best to hang on, to fucking persist, and Connor isn't even addicted. He's fucking coping, is all, and now he's going to want to help him through detox.  
  
“Night.” It sounds like a question.  
  
Murphy fumbles, shoving his hand under the blanket to grip Connor's, still loosely sprawled over his Mark. _His_. Connor's. He links their fingers, squeezing before he withdraws again.

There's got to be a point somewhere, somewhen, when he slips, and the range of possibilities how that could happen is fucking terrifying; getting in bed naked and waiting for Connor to touch him anyway, turning around and demanding his attentions elsewhere, cornering him and finally laying hands on his own Mark. Losing his grip on reality after losing his sense of time and just walking straight up to him, telling him about that possessive hunger growing inside of him.  
  
It will be a fucking tragedy, whatever it's going to be. But for now, he'll sleep.

*

During the night, Connor gets up and climbs back into his own bed. The times falling asleep together aren't numerous enough to make it a habit, so Murphy isn't surprised when he feels him leaving, but he still needs to fight a sudden flare of anxiety when he remembers that tomorrow will be the last time.

He rolls over to the warm spot Connor left, curling his fingers into the pillow.

Connor only got into his bed on a regular basis when the whole drug-shitshow started, and as soon as that's over and done with, he'll stop. They'll grow further apart. A few days from now, things will be vastly different already.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The sun is shining and Connor bought doughnuts. He loves him, and he loves the day already.   
  
That is a lie; this day, exactly one year ago, they were at McGinty's, having a blast amongst friends. This year, Rocco is dead, they haven't seen Doc in months, they murdered someone on live television, and they're fugitives. Calling Ma is impossible. Getting a job is, too. Meeting friends—   
  
Later, everything will be better. He'll love the day later.   
  
“Wanna go out somewhere?” he asks on impulse, eying both the smoke and the doughnuts, unable to decided which hunger to sate first. It takes him a moment to notice Connor isn't answering, then he frowns over at where Connor frowns at _him_. “What?”  
  
“Why, nothin',” Connor says, eyelids drooping.  
  
“What—did ye think I'd want to go right ahead? Fall out of bed and shoot up?”  
  
Connor raises his eyebrows and blows out smoke, face not obscured enough to hide how the corners of his mouth curve down. “I'm not thinking anything,” he says and somehow, his voice is too quiet to fit the context. “Where'd ye want to go?”  
  
Shrugging, Murphy steps into his jeans to justify avoiding eye contact. Doughnuts first, smoke after. “Yer the one who's going out all the time, ye tell me. What's going on around here?”  
  
The smoke still drifts, clinging to Connor's face. “Not much. There's a few shops. Shoemaker. Pictures, though they only open on weekends. A library.” He shrugs.   
  
Murphy finishes the doughnut and reaches for his rosary on the table, rolling the beads between his fingers. “Church?”  
  
“I would've said so.”  
  
They're quiet. Murphy lights a smoke, uneasy knot in his stomach.   
  
“Want to drive to the next town, look there?”   
  
Murphy looks up and suddenly, his heart is in his throat. He doesn't want to go, not at all, not for anything. It's the day, it's St. Patrick's Day, and he hasn't gotten high for two days in a row, and if there's one thing he shouldn't do, it's invading a place of worship in his state and with these thoughts clouding his mind like poison. The first poison, the sin to begin all sins, and here he sits, burning his fingers on the filter while his head is filled with images of Connor spread out before him, everything on display and nothing hidden, not the Mark, not his most intimate places, everything in reach for his fingers, his tongue— “Aye.”  
  
They go.   
  
The next church is one town over and they spend a good while in it, praying between empty aisles without being disturbed by anyone. Fleetingly, Murphy thinks about apologizing for his thoughts, but then he thinks about regret and atonement and he doesn't do it after all.  
  
When he's done, he goes to confession, fumbling his way through without revealing too much of himself and his company. Strangely enough, Connor follows him out right after without so much as looking in the direction of the priest, saying something about a gas station and checking out the library after all. With a dull pounding behind his eyes, Murphy gets into the car and lets Connor drive them wherever he pleases.   
  
He comes to with his gun in his hand and his arse planted on the chair in the motel. A bullet clatters to the ground, and Connor stops wiping down his gun to glance over.  
  
The silence stretches until Murphy is sure his throat is going to close up and he'll suffocate any moment.  
  
Connor nods, smoothing wrinkles from the rag in his hand. “Ye wanted to go to church, so we drove over to the next town, 20 minutes out. We went to the library and got pizza afterwards. It's afternoon and ye wanted to go because the streets are beginning to fill with people wearing green. The power is still out and ye said ye'd want to shower after cleaning yer gun.”  
  
The bullet stopped at the leg of the table, sitting harmless and innocent. Connor's hand comes into view, fingers curling and tips sliding over the floor when he picks it up. “Where did I lose ye?” he asks quietly.

Murphy looks down, eyes burning and lump in his throat the size of a—of a soul. “It's gotta stop,” he croaks, “I can't- Connor, I can't do this.”  
  
Connor sets down his gun and takes his as well, placing it on the table. “Ye don't have to,” he says at length. “It will stop. I don't want ye to worry about it.”  
  
“There's no way to be sure about that. Ye can't _know_.”  
  
“Well, but I do,” Connor snaps, and for some reason, his blotchy cheeks and the fierce look in his eyes makes Murphy's heart sing.

Some reason indeed.  
  
With a nod, he goes to take the shower his other-self planned to take. His thoughts keep on running in circles until he's back out and steps into fresh boxers, and then he looks up and sees Connor sitting on his own bed, elbows on his thighs like he plans to _watch_ him.  
  
“I can...” He looks back towards the bathroom, gesticulating awkwardly.

Connor shakes his head. “Go on, it's fine.”  
  
He does go on, unsure and eyes down, focusing on the task at hand and pretending he can't feel Connor watching his every move. It's comfortable and stressful at the same time, and fucking sad, too. A fucking tragedy, all of it, all of what led to them sitting on their respective beds, curtains drawn and flashlight pointing at the ceiling while the needle glimmers in the sparse light. It's not fully dark out, so Connor won't have any problems seeing it when he pushes the needle down with a grunt, or when it drops out of his numb fingers and down to the floor.

The wave crashes through him, closing up his throat in a hot shock, nasty and freeing.  
  
The band comes loose and Murphy jerks back from Connor's freezing fingers, again when Connor prods and shoves at him, being generally unpleasant and annoying. He wants to protest and fight, but every time he sets his mind on it, the specific annoyance is already over and done with.

Fucking St. Patrick's Day. Fucking Connor and his gentle freezing hands, and fuck Rocco for dying. Doc for offering them a place to stay even though he fucking knows he'd get arrested alongside them. And fuck Noah for putting this urge into their blood. The urge for righteous deeds, for cleansing the world and ridding it of all evil. Not the other one, the urge that isn't an urge any longer; it's a hunger for something within arm's reach at all times, and sooner or later, he'll starve to death and nothing more will be left of him than a hollow shell, burnt out by a love too great.  
  
“Murph,” Connor says urgently. He's in front of him, voice small. “Why yer crying?”  
  
He can't move. His hand is twisted in Connor's shirt and he doesn't hold on consciously, but his fingers don't loosen either. He's a statue, and Connor pushes him back in the bed.  
  
“It's all right,” he mumbles, climbing after. “It's just the day, it's not important. World's gonna look better tomorrow, ye'll see.”  
  
They're face to face, and Murphy curves forward against Connor's chest, trying to get his chest to expand normally instead of constricting his airway and forcing these awful sobs out of him. He fucking knew it would go like this, and still he believed—that's a lie, too. He knew, he dreaded this day for weeks and the mood was set since the morning. Starting the day with thoughts about one year back while one year back is the reason he puts needles in his arms. Go fucking figure.   
  
Connor's shirt is damp under his face. He smells warm and like fire somehow, smoke and open fields and green and stars above them. He smells so much like home Murphy sobs again, knowing perfectly well it's all in his own bloody head.  
  
“Tell me what I can do,” Connor whispers. His fingers flex against his arm, sliding up to his shoulder every now and then. Once to the side of his face, holding on.

The flashlight buzzes, dying.

“Tell me what ye need,” Connor says, ignoring the shocking darkness and rubbing over his arm. He sounds _stressed_ , and Murphy sobs again. “Tell me, Murph. Let me help.”  
  
There's only one thing that would help, help with all of it, the combined fuckery of their situation, but Connor wouldn't be so cruel, would he, to suggest—no. Connor doesn't fucking know, the thought of him - them - is so far from his mind, he doesn't even see the possibility. Like it should be. And still Connor's hand finds its way to his thigh, hooking it over his hip to reach for his name without having to lie behind him.   
  
It's dark and warm and intimate. Calming. Shocking too, to think about Connor not only allowing but initiating this kind of intimacy without seeing the implications.   
  
Murphy rushes out a breath, clamping his teeth shut when Connor digs his fingertips into the back of his thigh. “If I pretend to love ye, wouldn't it be the same?” he whispers, swallowing when it comes out all wrong. Connor says nothing, and he doesn't breathe either. “We could stay who we are an' I'll pretend and then we're just like any other couple with Soulmarks on them.”  
  
His breath is loud in the room, rushing in his ears while Connor lies motionless. When Murphy listens closely, he hears him breathing, too. It flows over his head in fast waves, and his heart will give out from the sheer force of love he has for him.  
  
“Where's this coming from?” Connor asks, and Murphy blinks, opening his eyes and momentarily feeling proud when his eyelids move without making a fuss. It's the calm, spreading up from the back of his thigh. From Connor's thumb skirting the outlines of his name. Always, always without having to look, and that fact won't ever change. Everything is possible, maybe they'll die the next time they pull their stunt or the police find them after all, but his Mark being Connor's, _him_ being Connor's, that will never change. From birth to death and probably after—isn't that the problem?  
  
If Connor doesn't want this with him - he obviously doesn't - he must never know about him either. Simple as that.   
  
So Murphy says it again, spreading the lie like the truth will seep into it the more he repeats it. “We'll be alone forever,” he starts, voice too brittle for his own liking. “If we pretended, we wouldn't have to be.”  
  
Connor squeezes him, digging his nails in until Murphy prays with gratefulness about not being able to move. Nothing of him, including the shameful parts. “We couldn't just pretend, Murph. I wouldn't forget.” It's soft, quiet, and Murphy breathes him in, willing the poison in his blood to cleanse his thoughts, to take him and float him away. In the morning, he'll remember suggesting to his own brother to forget their relations so they could be a couple instead.

A Soulmate-couple, made this way.

And he'll remember Connor saying no.  
  
Connor holds on, breath still quiet and fast, and he doesn't _want_ him— “Oh, what do ye think? That I'm not longing?”  
  
His eyes are wide open and he sees nothing but the dark shirt in front of him. Did he say it out loud—is Connor answering him, is he having a thought of his own-  
  
“For that connection.” Connor pauses, sweaty palm sticking to his leg. “For that kind of love,” he adds, low.  
  
But I'm right here, Murphy wants to say. He doesn't and he can't, he wants to fall asleep. How is it possible to long for someone who's right in front of him? So fucking near and never- His hand moves. Without his input or any plan behind it, his fingers loosen after all, unclenching from Connor's shirt to cradle his face.

It's too much and too dark, and his own face is still wet with pointless tears. Unwanted, just like Connor's hand flexing against his name like he can't decide whether to let it stay there or not.

Murphy drops his hand again.  
  
It doesn't matter.  
  
“Don't leave me,” Connor whispers. His hipbone digs into Murphy's thigh, uncomfortable, and then Murphy holds it up on his own when Connor lets go to reach for _his_ face instead.   
  
Words are an impossible task by now, his throat is raw and there isn't enough air in him and not enough willpower either. He doesn't want to know. He doesn't want to ask so Connor will notice that leaving him is such a ridiculous concept, he wouldn't even know where to begin. By fucking dying, probably.   
  
Connor fumbles and shifts, rubbing his thumb over his cheek. “Ye won't go, no?” he whispers. “Ye heard me, Murph?” He's so near he wouldn't be able to make out details even if the lights worked. Murphy closes his eyes, forcing his mouth to open for an answer he isn't sure of yet.  
  
It takes a moment, and then it's just more of the same. “I'm right here,” he insists, planning to clear his throat when it comes out too rough, but the movement proves to be a too complex challenge. “'m not going anywhere.”  
  
The thumb slips, catching in the corner of his mouth. When it leaves, Connor's lips take its place. They're dry and warm, landing right in the middle like Connor actually sees what he's doing, pushing with enough pressure to eliminate any doubts about it being an accident or not.  
  
Murphy stutters out a breath, and Connor's lips leave again. His hand stays and his warmth stays, and Murphy finally lets go of the dread longing sadness and falls asleep with the memory of a kiss on his mind.

*

Ma never liked it when they slept in one bed, at least not after they started school. From then on, she would tut and frown whenever she caught them, and despite her frown being fierce and impressive, she never got outright angry after seeing them, she simply disapproved of it. The quiet disappointment weighed heavier, of course, but the reason behind her disapproval eluded him for years and after, months after his first girlfriend and finding out Connor didn't like to talk about _that_ topic at all, understanding slowly dawned on him.

With it came the repulsive realization that people who knew about them expected them to cross boundaries just because they shared a close space. As if the simple act of touching something that's rightfully his - made so by the Lord Himself - would've led to incestuous groping at the age of seven. The mere thought is fucking awful, but waking with Connor plastered against his back, sticking to his skin, noticing for the first time that he was high _and_ shirtless last night—he can't deny that Ma was possibly right.   
  
Or maybe not. Maybe the warmth and the somewhat overwhelming love he feels are a result of him giving into it. Maybe the depravity of his love origins in the thoughts of touching his name and the intimate place of it. They're always shared, if not on the same spot, then at least on the same body part. Maybe everything would've been different if they had their Marks on their elbows. Who the fuck knows.   
  
“Can hear yer gears grinding from here,” Connor mutters, voice thick with sleep.

By now, he isn't too high to react to something like that, and Murphy grins, giddy about Connor not knowing. Despite maybe not entirely disapproving, if he interprets his fuzzy memories correctly. “Just thinking about Ma,” he says at length, and it's not even a lie.  
  
Connor shifts with a small sound, knees bumping against the back of his own. “Want to give her a call? It's been a while.”  
  
“Aye.” From a phone booth on their way somewhere else. It's the only way nowadays. “Maybe after,” he adds, closing his eyes again when Connor breathes softly against his hair, warm with sleep, almost stifling.

If he'd put his arm around him, the situation would switch from brotherly to lovely in an instant, but of course Connor doesn't. His arm stays wherever, and they're just sharing a bed, nothing more.   
  
“Ye feel better?”   
  
“I don't feel like crying if that's what yer asking.”  
  
Connor puts his arm around him. His palm slides over his arm up to his wrist, and he curls his fingers around it, squeezing.  
  
“I'd feel even better if we left,” Murphy says, stomping down on the urge to flex his hand.  
  
“Tired of sitting in the dark?”  
  
Murphy sighs and then he rolls his eyes at himself and turns on his back. The arm moves with him, coming to rest on his belly. “Tired of this room,” he says while he refrains from looking up at Connor's face, just in case. “And I guess once I... get started, I won't be leaving wherever we are for a while.” Connor withdraws his hand, and Murphy frowns at the ceiling. “Let's go somewhere else, aye? While I'm still good enough to do it.”  
  
That helps. They leave within the hour, and they drive by a phone booth, and Murphy pretends he doesn't see. After. He'll do it - after.

*

The new motel comes with a bathtub. It's a coincidence, but after the first good night and the next night of shaking and the _next_ night of starting to feel sick, Murphy develops the unpleasant habit of vomiting. Sometimes it's the water Connor keeps handing him like he's got nothing else to do, always fucking lurking with a fresh glass whenever he looks in his direction, and sometimes it's just from the cramps trying to end him.  
  
He becomes intimately friendly with the bathtub. Connor doesn't approve, but Connor isn't in the process of shaking his brains out, pissing his pants or sweating a river, so in his book, Connor better shut his gob and let him sit in the fucking bathtub.  
  
Every once in a while, he's close to freezing, basically perishing from one second to the next, and then he almost admits to Connor being right, though that never lasts for long. The sweating is harder. Or the sweating while freezing. He can't decide, but the tub - that's something. When he leans over the edge, he can hurl right into the toilet without having to get up, and when he's reeking, he can turn on the water. When he freezes, too. He can even drink from it, which makes Connor and his water entirely useless.   
  
He says so.  
  
“But ye have to eat _some_ thing,” Connor stresses.  
  
“Eat? The fuck, Connor,” he rasps, “The bloody fuck ye want? Wasn't all of this yer idea? Why won't ye leave me _be_?”   
  
There's a pause, uncomfortable like everything else these days.   
  
“Because ye have to eat something.” Connor squats next to the tub, pale in the ugly light, and Murphy's heart sings at once. And his stomach clenches, but that can't be helped. “Before it gets worse enough that ye can't any longer,” Connor adds, and Murphy's heart stops singing again. It sinks instead, all the way down through his stomach and into his fucking toes.  
  
“No way,” he whispers and then again, all the while until Connor manages to heave him out of the tub and onto the floor. There's a bathrobe around his shoulders, but the tiles are still cool under his legs. He won't fucking make it if it gets worse. “No way,” he says again, with a bit more vigor.  
  
Connor's arm presses against his, shoulder against shoulder.

Murphy looks at him while his brow starts to tickle with sweat, angry and hungry and in fucking pain, staring at his thick brother who knows _nothing_. “I'm not gonna make it.” It's a fact. This isn't pessimism, it's a simple truth.

Next to him, Connor cuts off something that sounds like a growl, and Murphy glances over out of the corners of his eyes, twitching back when Connor directs his glare at him, mouth twisted and eyes hard. “Ye fucking will,” he says. “There is no fucking way ye won't make it.”  
  
Murphy looks away, head throbbing. Why's he angry at him, it wasn't on purpose, none of it was. “What's the point?” he asks, staring at his knees like they hold the answers. The throbbing is so intense he's unable to focus on his own bloody legs despite, apparently, having raised them in the last minute.

An elbow bumps against his arm, making his stomach lurch. “What.”  
  
“Don't ye 'what' me, Murph. Ye can't say something like that an' not listen to my answer. Hear me, aye?”

His attention is slipping, weary and tired to the bone. “I hear ye.”  
  
It takes Connor a moment to go on, then he says, “I'll be yer shield.” There is no room for doubt in his voice, he sounds like he spoke the ultimate truth while not making a shred of sense. “Yer hurt. Yer wounded, and I'm not. I'll shield ye from it all. Ye'll get better, and if there's any temptation, I'll shield yer from that as well. From anything, aye? Anything ye tell me to. Nothing will get past me, I swear it. I mean it, Murph. I'll fucking destroy whatever it is ye need me to as long as ye stop wondering about the fucking point of _life_.”  
  
Murphy stares at his face, at the anger and fury, the righteousness spreading out from him, shining like a beacon of good intentions. He looks terrifying and so fucking beautiful, he looks like he's a manifestation of the Word, the old one, the ancient one. Without a sword or a spear or a hammer, but with a shield instead. A terrible shield, unfit to lay eyes upon without- without— “Yer an angel,” he whispers, “Are ye, Con, are ye-”

He hurls, and then he climbs back into the tub.

Connor leaves and brings back soup and says, “But we have all been as an unclean thing, and all our righteousness is as filthy cloths, and we all do fade like a leaf, and our iniquities like the wind have taken us away.”

“Isaiah?” Murphy croaks. For him or for them?

Connor sits with him until the soup comes back up and he's too weak to get out of the tub any longer.  
  
“Connor,” he whispers into the blanket, cheek pressed against the cool edge of the tub. It's dry and he's fatigued.   
  
“I'm here.”  
  
Murphy reaches over the edge, letting his hand dangle until Connor grips it. The contact is painful like he forgot to wear his skin, like he's raw all over, inside and out. He links their fingers. “I know yer not an angel,” he whispers. “Not one of His. Yer mine.”  
  
Another wave crashes through him, and Connor waits until he's done shaking, not letting go of his hand. “Yeah,” he says, and that is all.

*

The pain shifts. When his stomach is done protesting and he stops emptying himself out from every possible opening, he crawls into the nearest bed and decides to stop moving altogether. Once he finds a position, his muscles lock him in place, clenching and pulling taut until the minutes drag on, terrible and never-ending.

Somewhen, he's too tired to hurt any longer, at least in his limbs.

His head does, throbbing like someone hacked open his skull and sewed it back together with the least imaginable skill. And worked in a zipper. Maybe some extra fastenings as well. Each time Connor speaks, no matter how quiet he tries to be, the whole fucking thing unravels and something in his head misfires, forcing him to hold his breath until he's sure his brain won't leak out of his ears.

It doesn't last long, he thinks. When his head decides to get rid of the ability to hear instead of hearing everything there is to hear in the bloody world, Connor still wears the same shirt. It can't have been more than a day, two at most. Which makes this day 4.

He's cold.

“Murph,” Connor whispers, very, very quietly, “Yer awake?”

Murphy grunts, thoughts fuzzy like he's high all over again, but that would be a blessing, and blessings aren't granted to people like him, apparently. Connor whispers again, and he can't know he's unable to understand him when he snapped at him for making any noises just—some time before. It's still annoying. “Speak up,” Murphy grates out, even more annoyed when his brother wanders into his line of sight.

“I was about to go out, half an hour at most. Will ye be all right? Should I go another time?” It was better when he wasn't in front of him, because he hasn't been able to move his eyes for a while and like that, he didn't have to see Connor's pale face or the circles under his eyes. He looks haggard, and he has no business looking haggard at all. “Murph.”

“'m cold.”

Connor hovers. “Do ye want another blanket?” He hovers some more. “Are ye hurting, Murph? Or can I touch ye.”

“Dunno,” he lies.

Connor nods, squatting in front of the bed, the smoke of his cigarette curling up. He touches the side of his face, soft and careful with the corners of his mouth turned down, and Murphy whines, hurting and rubbing against the rough palm nonetheless.

“I'll go later,” Connor says, voice quiet again like he can't keep track of oversensitivity and partial deafness, like he forgot, like he just does whatever he wants to anyway.

The filter floats closer, towards his mouth, and Connor's eyebrow lifts in question.

Closing his lips around it, Murphy inhales and feels nothing about it; no rush of pleasure or dizziness after all these hours and days without, no bitter taste in his mouth. There's nothing, and he wouldn't have bothered in the first place, he hadn't found the will in him to move to get his own. Which is probably a bad sign.

“There ye go,” Connor says needlessly, then he takes the smoke back, draws one last time, and stubs it out with a sigh. “I haven't... for a few days. Ye think it would help?” He sounds hesitant, and Murphy's heart lurches despite everything. Connor _wants_ , even now that he's moody and disgusting, Connor wants. Enough to outright ask him for it.

“Worth a try.”

Connor crawls under the blanket, hand on his Mark.

It helps, it doesn't hurt, it's not raw but good and warm and lovely, numbing Murphy's senses in the best possible way.

“Sometimes I can't control myself when I'm around ye,” he tells the empty bed next to his own. Behind him, Connor presses his forehead against his back while his thumb circles the first O of his name.

Sometimes I'm afraid I won't be able to control myself, he doesn't say. He hopes it's implied. Or he hopes he doesn't need to be afraid. He hopes a lot of things, deep down, and Connor doesn't withdraw. He scoots closer instead, rubbing his nose against his sweaty back.

“But ye do,” Connor whispers. “Yer so strong.”

Murphy tries to scoff and it comes out pathetic when he feels lips pressing against him, cold and soothing.

“Don't try so hard.”

*

He eats.  
  
When it hasn't come back up an hour later, he showers and brushes his teeth for so long his gums feel raw. It's fucking worth it, but after, he lies back in bed and feels positively exhausted. “I feel weird,” he informs Connor, blinking at his brother gawking back at him. It's a weird circle of staring, and Murphy doesn't like it. “Sort of empty,” he says as a means to make him understand. “Dunno.”  
  
“At least ye ate.” Connor frowns. “Yer on the right track, it can only get better from now on, no?”  
  
“Suppose.”  
  
With halting steps, Connor wanders off to the bathroom, turning in the doorway like he expects him to start throwing out demands just because he isn't feeling all the way there yet. It's a nice gesture, and Murphy turns away, moody.  
  
It's dark and the lamp on the bedside table shines a hideous yellow, but at least there's electricity again. That detail sort of eluded him during the past week. Much else too, now that he thinks about it.  
  
As soon as he's fit enough, he'll convince Connor to drive up to a phone to finally give Ma a call. It's been so bloody long, her tirade will be terrible, but she's still their Ma. He's a grown man, a grown killer, but the pain in his muscles from straining so hard, constantly locking and unlocking, and the pain in his head, even if it's dull now, and the pain in his heart so fierce—he misses her.

He hasn't spoken to her since he found out about the expanse of his feelings, and it's obvious everyone who knew about the Marks thought it was inevitable. What if she too suspects it the second she hears his voice? What if she'll confront him, demand to come clear, to pray harder and to stay true to the Lord's way?  
  
Which fucking clear as glass doesn't include incest.   
  
“What yer frowning about, eh?”   
  
But the Lord wrote his name on his brother, the same man looking down at him with a tender face and wet hair and only wearing briefs, and Soulmark or not, he loves him with everything. If the Lord disapproves, He has to look the other way. Or take more care about which souls He pairs up.  
  
“Yer in pain again?”  
  
“Nah.” Murphy sighs, squinting up. “Just uncomfortable.”  
  
Connor hums, trudging away to turn off the overhead light. “Think touching it will help? It did so far.”  
  
Fuck, he's reaching. He can barely do without nowadays, and still he expects _him_ to— “Let me touch yers,” Murphy blurts out, heart stuttering when Connor freezes on the spot.  
  
“That's,” Connor says, and doesn't say anything else. He walks over, face in the shadows until he's right next to the bed. Then he climbs in, rudely making room for himself and drawing the covers up to his chest.

In case movement will end the spell, Murphy holds his breath, hands shaking with anticipation and his headache flying away just thinking that Connor will allow him to touch. After decades.

Connor shifts, fumbling. His briefs come up from underneath the blanket, and he drops them to the floor, disappearing into the darkness. His skin is still warm from the shower, not quite dried everywhere, and when he closes his hand around Murphy's, it's rough. “Ye really want to?” Connor asks, quiet and fucking stupid. He always wanted to touch it, it's fucking _his_.  
  
“Aye.”  
  
Connor nods. He bends his leg, hooking his foot behind Murphy's knees and tenting the covers. With his palm covering the back of his hand, Connor guides them over his thigh, hair rough and skin weirdly soft the further they reach his middle.

Heart hammering so fiercely he fears it'll beat out of his chest, Murphy bows his head, nudging Connor's shoulder with a soft whine when the movement stops. Connor swallows, loud in the quiet room.

“All right,” he croaks, angling his leg to the side and then moving their hands down while gnawing on his lip.

It's not sexual, it shouldn't feel like it by any means, and Murphy fucking strains thinking about Connor lying bare beside him, spread open and ripe for the taking if he took control of his own hand. He doesn't, of course, but then something snaps in his brain, grinding his thoughts to a halt when the tips of his fingers connect with something that doesn't feel like anything he remembers at _all_.  
  
Connor clamps down on his hand, pressing it against the Mark, and suddenly he stops breathing and arches his back, rushing out a shapeless sound.

Without any control, Murphy moans, digging his fingers in, blood pumping and nerves on fire. It's almost too much, overwhelming, rushing through him in a hot shock, and he feels it all, every bit of love Connor has for him, every warm thought and every heated thought and every concern, it's so strong he almost doubles back from the force of it. If he feels—Connor must've felt it too. He must've felt the change in his love.  
  
Connor plops back onto the mattress, spreading his legs so wide the blanket almost slips off. He's fucking moaning, and Murphy can't feel where the Mark starts or ends, he doesn't remember the dimensions and he _needs_ to.  
  
“Let me see,” he says, thick and useless. It took two decades to get Connor allow him the touch, it'll take at least another for a good look at it.  
  
“Yeah,” Connor says.   
  
Stunned, Murphy needs a moment to figure out why his head feels clearer, and then he grasps it's the cool air against his back, overheated under the covers and now bare to the room when Connor arranges his limbs and drapes the blanket over his groin like he plans to get painted like an ancient Greek. Which is a lovely thought, but not as lovely as Connor unhooking his leg to let him sit between them, or the sight of the blanket neatly covering his most intimate places while the Mark lies free.  
  
Murphy stares down at it, at his name in the scrawny writing he's known all his life, at the small letters and the hair growing around it, that high up Connor's leg. But the Mark is visible, letters stark against his white skin, soft fuzz instead of wild growth making it almost look smooth.

Connor flexes his thigh, and Murphy bends down and closes his teeth around his name.  
  
His heart _thrums_. Cheeks throbbing, he sucks open-mouthed kisses over the shaking thigh until he feels tentative fingers in his hair. Everything around him is Connor, frying his fucking brain with sensory overload, and then Connor breathes out a sound that could be a moan without even pretending to hide it, and Murphy snaps his eyes up, staring past the thin blanket which hides nothing of the arousal lying against Connor's belly.   
  
Is it the Mark, is it the same for him—  
  
Connor cranes his neck to look down at him, pupils blown and fingers tightening in his hair with a frown. He makes to sit up, rasping, “Think that's enough for now.”

Murphy grits his teeth. Connor's cock is right there in front of him, straining and asking to be taken care of, but if he fucks this up, it'll take ages until Connor lets him anywhere near his Mark again. With a nod, Murphy lets him sit up.

The blanket slips, revealing a wet spot beneath his navel.

From Connor's cock, which he cradles through the blanket.   
  
Murphy snaps. Pushing forward, he descends, licking up the smear and groaning against Connor's skin while his brother curls away and shoves at his shoulders. Connor is out of bed, starkers, and marches to the bathroom without turning back.

In his haste to get out of bed, he rammed his knee against him, and Murphy's ribs pound in time with his erratic heart. He cradles them, lying motionless until he can breathe again, then he robs forward until his face presses into the pillow and his groin against the mattress. His stomach feels hollow and his head full of cotton, and he did this. Chasing Connor away by stepping at least a mile over the line. He did this, making Connor hide in the fucking bathroom.  
  
The shower starts with creaking pipes.

Murphy licks his lips, tasting his brother on them. Where he's been hard. Hard and fucking leaking. And he's taking a shower, it's likely he'll take care of it right there and then.  
  
Strange and unwanted, something in his heart aches.

The shower stops running.

The pain dulls, both in his heart and his ribs, and joins the rest of his various aches. Connor opens the door and turns off the light behind him. A towel is wrapped high around his waist, and he walks back to the bed, expression unreadable.  
  
His heart hasn't stopped hammering since the mess started, and now it won't either, not when he notices that Connor is dry like he stood and thought about showering instead of actually doing it; cooling down or taking himself in hand, it doesn't matter - he didn't.

Instead, he comes back to him, lying back in bed with him.

Murphy rolls onto his side, staring until even his bloody thick brother must understand what he wants. Fuck, he _wants_ , and Connor doesn't move. Carefully, Murphy scoots closer until he's pressed against Connor's side, breath hitching against his shoulder when Connor lets out a small sound and flexes his muscles like he doesn't know what to do.

Or maybe like he still doesn't understand what this is about.   
  
A warning would be best, but his higher brain functions left the building a while ago and his body doesn't feel too hot either, and Murphy decides to simply move forward. Connor wouldn't have come back if he didn't want this. Right?

He slips his fingers under the towel, fingertips dragging over the rough hair on Connor's thigh.

With a sigh, Connor makes room, angling his leg to the side to give him access, and the rest of his educated thoughts leave him as well. Murphy slides his hand up to the Mark, fingers trapped in the sweaty crease of Connor's thigh, and revels at Connor spreading even more. He should ask, shouldn't he? Aye. It's for the best, everything else would be too crass— “Show me what's mine,” Murphy whispers, and brushes his fingers over the underside of Connor's balls.  
  
There's a sharp intake of breath and nothing else for the longest seconds.  
  
Murphy doesn't stop moving his fingers, dampening Connor's shoulder by panting against him and feeling Connor's balls pull tight under his touch. How's he so very sensitive, is it everywhere, is it a special spot, is he going to _show_ him—does he understand what this is really about. Not about the Mark but about—about them. Does this count as stopping to be careful? It's what Connor wanted, after all.  
  
“I haven't,” Connor says, voice thick. “Ever,” he adds, loosening the towel.

The words don't make sense, but Connor bares himself and nothing else is important. In the bloody world. “I'm gonna-” Murphy starts, but Connor already peels the towel out from underneath himself and lets him see it all; his cock curving up, the very edge of the Mark, the place where he's pulling tight just from his gentle stroking.

Murphy scoots down, shoving at his boxers and kicking his legs to get them off while he makes room for himself between Connor's. Then he's right there, staring at the very picture he fantasized about so often. Without meaning to, Murphy moans, barely hearing Connor doing the same when he bends down to lick over his name.

He takes his time about it, lost in the feeling and taste and smell, rutting against the edge of the mattress to get some friction.  
  
Fingers card through his hair, gentle and only a bit insistent, pressing him closer while Connor leaks onto his own belly. Jesus fuck - Hail Mary - this is going to be his new addiction, he feels it in his bones. This isn't the end of a painful detox, this is replacing one drug with another, and he couldn't be fucking happier. Connor looks exactly like he thought he would, spread out and whining softly, and so lovely needy, and he took such good care of him, now and always, he needs, wants, _has_ to give back. Give him everything. He's Connor's by right, but Connor is also his.   
  
Murphy turns his head and licks a careful stripe over where Connor clenches.

Connor freezes tight against the intrusion, and Murphy does it again, less careful and more demanding, and follows with his face when Connor scrambles backwards.   
  
“What yer doing?” Connor whispers, face scarlet and neck craned to stare at him.   
  
Murphy stares back, trying for intense, and probes at him with his tongue. Before his eyes, Connor's cock twitches, and Murphy says, “Stop clenching.” Connor lies back with a stuttering moan. “Has anyone touched ye?”  
  
That's what he said—what he meant, didn't he?  
  
Connor unclenches so suddenly, Murphy slips inside without meaning to. He draws back to lay his hand over the Mark, trying to catch Connor's eyes.

“Ye ever did anything with it?”  
  
Trying to get away again, Connor scoffs, sounding stupid. “Yer asking whether anyone fucked me?”  
  
“No, I'm asking whether ye ever put yer cock to use,” Murphy murmurs, lips against his hole. “Ye ever fucked anyone?”  
  
There's a beat of silence.  
  
“No.”  
  
It's his drug for sure.  
  
Murphy drags him open with his tongue, Connor's cock twitching before his eyes and the taste of him in his mouth, ignoring how Connor sporadically shoves at his shoulders or how he clenches but still pushes back against him when he draws off to breathe.   
  
“Stop,” Connor rasps. “Murph, stop.”  
  
He wants to bury himself there, form the most natural and simultaneously the unholiest bond, locking in body and soul like they're meant to, birth or not. He wants—fuck. Murphy stops after one last lick and crawls up, parting Connor's legs and lying down on him, barely remembering to not crush his brother underneath him. He holds himself up, pressing their groins together and avoiding Connor's face—just in case.

After the horrible days, his arms shake with the strain of the position, but like this, he can watch his cock drag over Connor's, first rubbing and then sliding when everything is properly wet. And fuck, Connor is.  
  
“Wait,” Connor says again, voice so thick Murphy thinks it's a moan at first. “I can't- Murph, wait.”  
  
Murphy freezes, heart thudding fiercely, and he doesn't dare look up in his face. “Want to stop?” he asks, voice too small after being so bold and not caring about it. They're still pressed together, the head of his cock right under Connor's, and then Connor breathes harshly against his forehead and a tentative hand slides over his back, raising goosebumps and a sick hot feeling in his stomach, both sweet and right in its gentleness, and wrong all the same. The hand comes to rest on his arse, cupping him with such careful fingers, it reinforces the feeling.  
  
“No, I just,” Connor says, swallows, “can't hold on.”  
  
Murphy presses his forehead against Connor's sternum and starts thrusting.   
  
Fingers dig into his arse and Connor moans into his hair, and then he comes without fucking end, shaking and painting them white, making it so slick Murphy frantically drives his hips down to get some friction, right over Connor's still twitching cock until he's there himself.  
  
When he comes, Connor moans again, a rough, broken sound, and Murphy finds he can't look up, hovering until his arms shake so badly he has to roll off.  
  
Eventually, Connor takes a shower. His second one, the third one he wanted to take.  
  
Murphy goes after, and somehow they don't talk. Connor is fidgety, and Murphy feels awful because they don't even hold eye contact, and something is ruined now. And if not ruined, then never again like it was before. Even with that knowledge, he keeps his eyes to himself, pretending he doesn't know Connor is doing the same when they go to sleep in their own beds.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Murphy wants to say: this is horrible, let me take it all back. Connor won't hold his gaze and his heart fucking aches at the thought, and he feels too clean, unpleasantly clean after washing off their come, and it's not right. And the shakes are back, too.

Instead of everything else, he says, “Let's leave.”

They do.

Shades on, hands unsteady, legs unsteady and head pounding, but they do. Connor drives, and Murphy doesn't think they have a goal.

It's been one year. For him at least. For him, it's been one year of knowing, and the rest of the year was fairly horrible, and the drugs took root quickly. It's been one year, and his hands don't shake because they crave a chemical he won't allow in his body any longer; the replacement was instant, and now it's Connor's touch. He fucking knew it would happen, and instead of touching Connor with gentle hands, he went full-on porn and crossed all the lines he was able to reach.

What he also knew: Connor isn't a sexual person. He never saw him get close to anyone, take a girl home, ask him to stay elsewhere for a few hours. It's only ever been him who did that. With Connor in his peripheral view. If Connor likes it - and given the fact how quickly he came, how he moaned so prettily and showed him—Connor likes it, and still he never did anything about it.

For Connor, it hasn't been one year.

For Connor, who says he's going to be his shield, who wants to protect him from anything that means to harm him, for Connor, who never let anyone touch him and who let him lick him open without even properly kissing him, for his strong and handsome brother, it hasn't only been one year, and he wouldn't have said a thing about it.

He fucking knows him.

They're in a parking lot, it looks like it belongs to a diner. There's a paper bag in his lap, and inside, there's probably a burger. Connor stares at him from the side.

“I remember,” Murphy says tiredly, keeping his mouth shut about longing to lose time again instead of having to sit through this awful silence.

Connor grunts, and they drive off again. The atmosphere is strange. Not too uncomfortable, but not like before either. It's not unexpected, on the contrary, but he still feels like crying.

Forcing the feeling to hide in some corner of his mind, Murphy takes a big breath and tries. “Maybe I wasn't in my right mind after all.”

Connor takes a turn and drives a silent mile, making Murphy curl his toes in frustration.

“It didn't hurt ye, did it?”

The words don't mean anything to him. “No,” Murphy says, incredulous.

Connor's tongue darts out to wet his lips while Murphy tries to mentally burn away Connor's shades so he can see his eyes. “Then it's all right. Everything. No harm done.” Connor nods and turns on the radio.

No harm done in licking his arsehole.

Rubbing his cheek, Murphy tries to live.

The air is so loaded he has to consciously force himself to focus on the tinny song playing in the background instead of outlining scenarios how to get Connor to let him do it again. For longer. Until he's nice and loose and—no. Just no. He can't decide whether to feel guilty or ashamed or aroused or happy; it's all too much and too soon, the drugs barely left his body and the new one is sitting right next to him, and he has to _breathe_.

In and out again. Then again, until it's all right. There is no decision to make, no one forces answers out of him. Connor is driving, not demanding vows, just minding his own business, and the sun beats down from above and the burger still waits to be eaten, and he breathes.

He counts until the knot in his chest loosens and the world doesn't look as bleak anymore, and Connor stops at a motel even though the sun hasn't set yet, mumbling about driving further in the morning.

It's going to be all right.

*

Smoking too much, Murphy watches the world fly by without caring where they are or go to, and he only takes off his shades when the light turned from morning to midday to dark enough he can't see properly anymore. Connor has been squirming for a while, maybe he's tired and needs to switch places, or maybe he sits on something he wants to say and doesn't know how to; Murphy isn't sure he wants to know, and since Connor still won't look at him for longer than a few seconds, he can't read his face either. Or his feelings, like when he touched the Mark.

The thought alone makes his blood rush down, and Murphy pulls a face. This is the fucking problem with addiction and Soulmarks in places that are too intimate for their own good. If it were on Connor's arm, he'd simply reach out to ground himself. Like this, it feels sexual. It always will, and he won't always _want_ to. This is everything, this isn't about sex, not only, and Connor won't know. He won't fucking know, not with being abstinent his whole life, only ever kissing some lass in a bar without ever- without— “Con,” Murphy says thinly.

The car stops at the side of the road. They're nowhere, and Murphy breathes out a sigh of relief for being able to say it out here without a bed anywhere, without Connor thinking he'll try to initiate anything as soon as he brings up the topic.

Years. _Years_.

There are dozens of things he wants to say, and for some reason, he starts with, “Ye think I was always addicted to something?”

Connor sits quietly. Murphy feels his eyes against the side of his face, and for another strange reason, he thinks he knows they're kind. “It won't happen again,” Connor says instead of answering, and Murphy shakes his head.

“Already has.”

Connor rushes out a quiet sound. “I fucking knew,” he says, sounding so weird Murphy finally turns to look at him. “I knew I couldn't let ye touch it because I would've lost it then, and now look what happened.”

Murphy stares, dumbfounded.

“Always knew it was wrong,” Connor says, looking down at his lap. “But I guess I thought... but Ma was right all along. I shouldn't have let ye, least of all shown-”

“Bloody- Connor, shut yer _gob_.” With a severe pounding behind his eyes, Murphy stares at him, licking his lips to give himself more time to come up with something good instead of—laughing. This is so like Connor, he doesn't even know where to begin, but he's also bloody tired and starved for contact, and he's had it with all of it. “I'm gonna do it again, properly this time,” he says, and nods.

Connor restarts the car, and they're off again. The silence is nice and the air is cool, and Murphy feels pleased with himself.

Half a mile later, Connor stops the car again, smiling like he's gone in the head.

“What?” Murphy asks and lights a smoke to busy his hands.

“Care to tell me where this—fixation of yers is coming from? Last time I checked, yer thoughts very fucking definitely didn't stray that way.”

“Last time ye checked?” Murphy asks, wincing along when Connor pulls a face. “I was rather busy lately. Ye might've noticed.”

Connor lights a smoke. “That mean ye came up with doing those things ye did to me- Ye came up with them just the day before?”

“No.” Neither of them rolled down their windows and it's getting difficult to see through the fumes. “Why yer asking what ye know anyway? Ye had to know when I changed—when I noticed. What I wanted.” Cringing, Murphy turns away, smoke burning in his eyes when Connor blows even more in his direction. “And I've got no idea why yer suddenly pissed at me. Wasn't me who moaned like a striapach, was it.”

Connor laughs, sounding awful. “Yer a bastard,” he says, and then they're smoking in silence for a while. “Ye know what Ma always said?” he says eventually, voice quieted down, serious and a bit sad, and Murphy immediately decides he doesn't want to know.

“No.”

“The first few years, the topic didn't come up, or at least I don't remember anything about it. Started around when we were four, maybe five? 'Keep those breeches up, Connor, or people might mistake ye for a Tinker'. That's what she kept saying, and it wasn't like it'd go unnoticed when I ran around starkers anymore. At that age. So I kept them up, and then we didn't share a tub anymore. 'Big boys take baths on their own' - ye remember? And we stopped sharing a bed.”

The filter burns his fingers, and Murphy doesn't dare move to roll down his window.

“She sometimes saw me touch yers, and I was always so fucking worried she might say something to ye about it, that she'd look at ye the same way she looked at me sometimes. Back then, she kept seeing it when she scrubbed me down or made me lose my muddy clothes or whatever, and she always paused and jerked back like she forgot it was there, and I never- And I didn't want her to look at ye the same way.”

“Connor,” Murphy says, keeping his eyes on him when he finally lets in some fresh air.

“'m not done.” Connor shrugs, flicking out the stump. “She didn't, did she? She didn't even mind that much when I touched yers, and I'm not so thick to believe she loves ye more than me. It's place of it. The Mark. We had that fucking awful talk when I was twelve, she told me all of it while she never fucking mentioned the topic any other times. Ye ever heard her say one word about it? Me neither, that was the last time, and she told me I'd have to be careful cause one of these days, ye'd ask to touch it again. It's yer right, she said, and it's not _right_.”

Bloody fuck, he feels like crying again and he still doesn't know where Connor is going with this. “She never said that to me,” Murphy says helplessly. The fuck does that even mean? She isn't a cruel woman, she's the best mother he can possibly imagine, she kept up with all of their shite and she didn't do anything worse than scolding them somewhat fierce when they destroyed half the house. Why the fuck would she be cruel to Connor of all fucking people, the most loving person he can imagine?

“Weren't ye listening?” Connor croaks. “It's the place. She fucking knew. When I hit puberty, I knew too. And she also fucking knew ye'd ask, because it's just right, I want to touch mine all the time as well... But Murph, the place it's in, it's impossible for me or ye to keep it—decent. She said it would lead to things that aren't what the Lord intended - suppose she phrased it differently - but she said I mustn't let ye, because there'd be no coming back from it.”

“I don't want to hear any more of this.”

“And here we are,” Connor says. He shrugs and lights another smoke.

Murphy stares at his face, barely able to make out details with the lack of streetlights in the middle of fuck all. “Why didn't ye tell me?”

“But we have all been as an unclean thing-”

“No-”

“Don't 'no' me, Murph. It is what it is.”

“Fucking Christ, Connor.” Murphy crosses himself and wipes his wrist over his eyes, pressing until they hurt for a different reason. “I can carry some of it, why don't ye see that? I might be unable to carry it all, ye fucking know me, but I can take some of the weight. This is us. We, Con. Both, together. It's not a decision ye have to make, it's one we make and one we carry together.”

Connor lets out a soft sound and holds out his smoke. His hand lingers without touching. “This is new for ye,” he states, and it sounds too weird, too tight and unlike him, Murphy bristles at once.

“Just cause I didn't see it before doesn't mean I wouldn't have wanted. Ye could've told me about the possibility-”

“They always touched ye. Ye always let them. Fucking often, too.”

Murphy balls his fists and flicks out the smoke before even finishing it. He won't fucking apologize for something he didn't know caused pain. Or should he? Fuck, should he—

“But ye never let anyone see it, no?”

“ _No_.”

Connor grins, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. “Fuck, Murph, all these times I knew ye needed me to stay at Rocco's so ye could stick it in some lass...” He shakes his head, looking over out of the corner of his eyes. It's not a nice look, or particularly friendly. “I always thought ye'd snap one of those days. Just do it, ye know.”

In fact, he doesn't. Instead, he regrets starting the discussion altogether. Not that Connor seems in the mood to stop any time soon. “I don't,” Murphy says, sighing and wishing they'd drive on to the next motel and forget this conversation ever happened. “And I was fine back then, don't see a reason why I should snap,” he adds.

“'m not talking about drugs,” Connor says softly, and he even smiles for a moment. Despite the lack of lights, his eyes seem dark. “Yer not one for holding back, ye know that. I knew ye changed yer mind about me as soon as ye did, and if it weren't for this horrible year, I'm sure ye would've—made yer move earlier.”

“Guess.” Murphy waits, and nothing comes. “I don't know what yer saying.”

The leather of the wheel creaks under Connor's grip, loud in the quiet of nothing around them. “I've waited for this for years on end, Murph. Fucking ages. I never got it up for anyone else, it's always fucking ye. I won't let that go again, but I don't understand why ye didn't want before. Do ye fucking know how often I thought ye'd just come to me and demand what's yers? Just...”

“Just what,” Murphy whispers.

“That ye'd come to me and demand to see, and then ye'd just take me.”

Something roars, hopefully only in his mind. “Take ye?” Murphy repeats, staring at Connor staring at him.

“Aye.”

There's nothing in his head. “Is that—a fantasy?”

“Aye,” Connor says. He looks away. “No. It's what kept me going when ye shared that part of ye with what felt like everyone but me. Just a faint hope that ye'd snap and do it, and then we'd be all right.”

Without meaning to, Murphy reaches out and digs his fingers into Connor's biceps, feeling the muscle flex under the touch. “I'm sorry,” he says after all. “I'm fucking sorry. I didn't know. And I'm sorry _that_ I didn't know.”

Shrugging off his hand, Connor looks back to the road like he plans to go on driving. “I won't let ye forget now,” he says, and then he rushes out a breath and restarts the car. “Ye better not change yer mind again.”

Hurt without any actual reason for it, Murphy shakes his head. “I won't,” he says, and it's the truth. He won't, he has him now. Connor is his. He always was, but now more so than ever.

They drive.

Eventually, Connor clears his throat. “It's just on top, aye? The rest stays as it is.”

“Course,” Murphy rushes out. “I want to. I want it all. I want to do what ye said-”

“Aren't ye disgusted by the idea?” Connor looks ahead, but his voice is tentative, soft. “Ye've been with women all these years.”

His heart stutters, something heavy pressing behind his eyes at once. “Ye've got no idea how badly I want to touch ye all the time,” he croaks, but that's not what he wanted to _say_. “Nothing about ye disgusts me, don't think ye actually could if ye tried. How can't ye know that?”

“Fine, now I know.”

“Fine,” Murphy gripes. Then he remembers how he held back, how he didn't allow himself to linger or smell or touch or taste—

Connor groans. “What's that look?”

Murphy turns to the window, eyes against nothing at all and cheeks warm when he lays out his words. “Just remembered what I won't have to hide anymore.” He's very warm. This is probably not a good idea. “Like leaning close when yer brushing yer teeth first thing in the morning. When ye smell warm, a bit sweaty. I can do that now, no?”

Connor clears his throat. “If ye must.”

The grin feels strange, he almost forgot what it feels like to be carefree. “And after yer work-out-”

“Oh, quit it.”

“When yer still panting and running hot-”

“Bloody- I know now. Stop talking.” It's too dark, such a shame, he's sure Connor's face is burning.

Murphy grins again, but he does stop talking.

Connor doesn't, but his voice isn't playful or embarrassed, it's soft again, and he's already tired of hearing that tentative tone. He's the one to put it there, Connor isn't like this, and he'll work fucking hard to get rid of it again.

“What I said. Ye know,” Connor says, wiggling his hand. “Not just now, okay?”

Murphy licks his lips, somehow proud. “We've got time. We've got for-fucking-ever, and I want it all, aye? To fuck ye and to go to church with ye and to fight over the last cracker or that green shirt-”

“That's my shirt.” He sounds breathless, and then his voice gets thick. “I can still feel where yer tongue was. It's been tingling all day, a fucking hassle to sit on it.” He clears his throat. “Who knew ye could be so fucking aware of yer own arsehole, honestly.”

It's the most inopportune thing Murphy can imagine.

They find another motel and they check in, and they don't talk anymore.

Connor says, “We won't cuddle.” and goes to sleep in his own bed, and Murphy does too, and it's awkward. There is no plan for this, any guide on how to proceed, and it's the weirdest of feelings, being unsure about them. He's been plenty unsure in his life, but not with Connor. Only ever in spite of him.

The sheets rustle, and feet tap over the floor.

Connor climbs in, and this time, his forehead doesn't press against his back; he simply lies behind him, knees digging into the back of his until he outright shoves and makes room for himself, thigh pressing up against the Mark. Murphy reaches for his hand and pulls Connor's arm around him.

They're cuddling, and his heart beats fiercely, terribly almost, thinking about losing this moment to time, or losing the time of this moment. It's got to be over. It's got to.

*

Back home, the priest said that despite never knowing the full extent of the Lord's plan, they must always trust in it, for no other than He knows as much. Everything has a purpose and questioning His decisions means falling from faith. Then he'd said what they all know, what is taught at every school around the world, and still he thought it important enough to point out yet again:

“People knew before Christ came to save us, before empires had risen and fallen again, before civilization itself. You know that, son. Whatever path people followed, whichever God they served, the right one or the false ones; they always knew He made it so, and He makes no mistakes. Two of a pair means two halves of one. Nothing is able to change a half belonging to a certain whole into a different half to fit with a different whole. It's one of the few truths we know, and it will stay the truth even when all of us, the Lord included, will be forgotten again.”

Afterward, Murphy had cried. At first about imagining a time when he'd be forgotten along with every tradition and virtue he valued so highly, but then he'd stepped out of the confessional and seen the priests face, and it had been kind and sad, and he'd _known_ the priest had known, and Murphy had cried all the way back home.

By the time he'd closed the door behind him, he'd stopped. And then he stopped indefinitely and called up his girl for a date instead, complete with 13-year-old bravado.

“We don't even have to change our name,” he tells the ceiling.

Connor rummages around, huffing and talking under his breath.

Murphy reaches behind him and throws a pillow at his head. “Listen up, ye wanker.”

“Why would we change our names?” Connor mutters, absently flatting his hair. He doesn't look over, and Murphy glowers at his profile.

“Want to shoot some more drug dealers?”

Connor stops, turning slowly.

“Thought so.” Murphy rolls his eyes. “I'm making plans,” he adds and waggles his eyebrows.

“Ye look like yer gone in the head, that's what yer doing.”

“We wouldn't have to change our name,” Murphy repeats. “ _Our_ name.”

Wandering over, Connor raises his shoulder in a shrug, but he doesn't look too put out, so Murphy grins at him.

“Don't ye get it? People would think we're married. They'd think we're just an ordinary Soulmate-couple.”

For a moment, Connor holds himself still. “One of those with matching tattoos,” he says, and Murphy grins a bit more, carefree and fucking light.

“Well, we are,” he points out, face warm.

Connor looks at the space between their beds, studying the floor like he's searching for something. “Where?” It's longing, it's quiet and undemanding like he always is with things that are important to him. He only ever loudly demands what he doesn't care about, and something _tugs_ at Murphy's heart.

“Home somewhere? Pick a small town and...”

“Settle there,” Connor says. “Would've to be a very small town, though. With a small police station, where they don't watch too much news...”

Murphy shrugs, looking away from his hopeful face. Fuck, he looks young like that. It's weird. “Don't think they care that much, it's been a while.”

“On another continent.”

“And Ma's there.”

“She could visit- No, we could meet in the middle. Maybe.” Connor laughs, suddenly. “Da's there too, if we ever wanted-”

He doesn't say anything, but Connor still stops. Is it a brother-thing, is it a Soulmate-thing? Who the fuck knows, they're all the same to him. To them.

“Murph.”

“We'd have real jobs again,” Murphy says, face warming again when it comes out too small. Like a turn back in time, but this time around, they'll do right. A proper flat, a proper job, maybe proper friends. Rinse and repeat; a second try.

The mattress dibs and Connor's knee bumps against his hip. “Want to go to the library, take a map and pick us a good spot?” Connor nudges him, warm and nice, and Murphy nods. “We'll call Smecker, ask him to arrange for some means of transportation. He'll know what to do.”

“Aye.”

“Spend our last money, stay here until we leave?”

“Aye,” Murphy says, soft. He sits up, and Connor's hand is on his arm, fingers curling possessively.

“We call Ma when we're there?”

Closing his eyes, Murphy nods and feels the tension in the air dissipate until he's sure Connor won't kiss him after all.

He's right, Connor doesn't, but they leave to search for a library, pick a spot, and spend two hours on locating the scrap of paper with Smecker's number on it, and somehow, it feels just as good. It's a step in the right direction, in the only direction, and he has time. They have time, they'll have it all.

*

The weeks go by, Smecker keeps grunting at them over the phone, unnerved and still organizing every last aspect of their journey, and the air is heavy with anticipation to finally get going, and a bit with boredom too, since they decided to stay in the same motel until the departure.

He doesn't mention it, and now it's dark, and what he says instead is, “Ye think Ma knows?”

Connor sighs an almighty sigh and turns around to grace him with his stink eye. Then he turns back, unpacking his bag to start all over again. “Won't miss _that_ , that much's sure,” he mutters.

“It's cause I've got more jeans than ye do. Fashion sense and all of that,” Murphy says. “And do ye? Think she knows.”

“That is a lie, brother. An outright lie, and outrageous to think I wouldn't notice.”

Murphy digs his teeth into his lip, chest tight all of a sudden.

Eventually, Connor sighs again. “I don't know,” he says and shrugs with one shoulder without lowering it again. “Don't think so, but we shouldn't... point her in that direction if she doesn't say anything first.”

“And if she does?” Murphy sits up and reaches for a smoke even though he already brushed his teeth and he'll feel gross in the morning.

“Then nothin'.”

“Con.”

Giving the bag a final shove, Connor trudges over and steals his smoke. “We'll listen to her rant and then we—supposed we tell her to...” He pulls a face. “Mind her own business.”

Murphy guffaws.

“We tell her Da's home too, that'll help to distract her. Maybe.”

The tightness in his chest disappears, and Murphy steals back his smoke, taking one last drag before he stubs it out. “All right.”

“That's all?”

“Aye.” Murphy gets back in bed and ignores Connor's stare until he hears the faint sound of him pissing without closing the door to the bathroom. He knows Connor will want to touch it. He's got that look about him; his mouth tense, a tightness around his eyes that reaches up to his brow, his eyes dark. For all the bravado, he didn't put his hands on Connor since their talk, not in this way at least, and not on the Mark either, but the rest is still the same.

Though this time, he knows, he doesn't have to guess. Time is whole.

“Move.” The overhead light turns off and Connor stumbles through the dark.

Murphy scoots forward, and then his hand gets crushed under Connor's knee and he yowls and Connor titters.

“I said move,” he says like the arsehole he is, shoving until Murphy scoots back. Connor lies down, fumbling to drape the covers over them both, and then he stills. They're close enough his sigh puffs against Murphy's face.

“Tell me,” Murphy says, though he's not sure what he means by it.

It's too dark to see any details.

Connor's hand lands on his thigh, then he scoots closer and grips him tight, pulling until his thigh is draped over his hip. It's a repetition of the last time he was high, and it's so very different at the same time; not sad or hopeless or anything else bad. Instead, Connor is naked and Murphy's thigh fits nicely over his hip, the bone poking him, grounding like the hand on his Mark.

“'m not good at this,” Connor says, rough and very close, and then he shrugs with the shoulder he's not lying on, and Murphy kisses him.

Gentle at first, chaste. Like Connor did that one time, a firm press of lips, but instead of stopping there, he goes on and does it again, and then again, raising his hand to cradle Connor's face and landing on his ear instead. Murphy grins, pushing his lips against Connor's hum until the hand digs in firmly, fingertips burning on his thigh when Connor lets out a sound that isn't a hum, it's much deeper.

He wants to ask, but he doesn't dare, so he keeps kissing him, rubbing his thumb over Connor's cheekbone and teasing with his tongue until Connor parts for him and they're kissing properly.

Back then, back when, he saw Connor doing it, this isn't new for him and it shouldn't be, he shouldn't want it to be, but a nasty wave of jealousy surges through him nonetheless, making him press closer, pushing inside when Connor rushes out a breathless sound and not drawing back again.

They kiss until he needs to breathe so fiercely he can't hold on, and then they kiss a bit more when Connor pushes after him, forcing his own way inside until he swells against his belly, smearing over his skin and flexing his fingers on the Mark.

Dizzy and breathless, Murphy pulls back enough to take a few breaths, panting against Connor's face. Their noses bump in the dark, and again, he wants to ask. He lowers his leg and forces it between Connor's so they can lie comfortably on their sides, and Connor doesn't approve, and Murphy doesn't care. There's room now. He has access, and he doesn't ask, because Connor wouldn't want him to.

He _knows_ him.

Connor's cock is smooth under his palm, hard and incredibly sensitive. Murphy grips him, moving with careful strokes until Connor whines against his mouth and they're kissing again, and then he stops being careful and jerks him like he fucking wants to, like he does to himself, not caring about Connor kissing him so messily he can hardly breathe or the hand pulling at his hair bordering on painful. This is fucking it, he's got him, literally. He's got him in his hand at fucking last, and then Connor draws back a few inches.

“Wait,” he says, voice thick.

Murphy squeezes him, desperate and shamefully angry. “Why?” His hand keeps moving on its own while Connor moans against his lips, how the fuck is he supposed to stop now?

“Slow down- Fuck, slow down.”

“But why?” He does slow down, he's not an arsehole, but it takes a lot, and he's still cradling him. “Thought that's what ye wanted. Me just... just taking what I want.”

Connor's cock twitches under his palm. “I can't- Murph, I can't hold on. Just want it to last a little while longer.”

Murphy starts pumping again, rough and fast. “I'm gonna do it again, after,” he says, and then he repeats it against Connor's mouth until his hand slides wetly, until Connor stops kissing and starts panting, until he has to squeeze his eyes shut to force his own arousal down from the sound and smell of it all.

It's over quickly. Connor comes with a moan that sounds almost broken, tugging at his hair and coating his chest until he's raw and whining, and Murphy has to kiss him again, licking inside while he's still soft and pliant.

Eventually, he gets shoved away, and Murphy scoots back to push down his boxers.

“Yer going to do it now?”

Blinking in Connor's direction, Murphy shakes his head and kicks off the covers. “Nah, we'd need slick for that,” he says and lies back on his side. “Turn around?”

“On my stomach?”

“On yer back first.”

Connor does.

Murphy presses a kiss to where he guesses Connor's shoulder is while he swats away the hand reaching for him. “No, I wanna- lie still, ye knob.” He also guesses they would glare at each other, but it's too dark for that, so Murphy reaches out to wipe through the come on Connor's chest before it's drying, slicking up his hand. “Spread yer legs a bit.”

The panting hasn't stopped since before he came, and Connor does what he's told without hesitating, only flinching back the slightest bit when Murphy slicks up the insides of his thighs. When he's there, Murphy can't help it and lets his fingers wander, probing gently and retreating fucking fast when Connor lets him inside without clenching at all, just as a precaution in case he could slip in a finger with only Connor's come as slick and then—no. No like that. “On yer side,” he says instead.

“Is that a command?”

He doesn't like the tone. Murphy bodily turns him over and makes him stretch out his legs. “Ye said ye like it, so ye have to live with it now.”

“I never said such a thing,” Connor says, breathless again. His muscles are flexing, and he's so fucking new at all of this, he really doesn't know.

Arranging his limbs, Murphy scoots up to Connor's back and smooths his hand over his side. “I'll start, aye?”

“What yer asking me for?” Connor gripes, and Murphy fucking loves him. He pushes his cock between Connor's thighs, slow to test the tightness, to be prepared for Connor's sudden flex of muscles and him twitching back. Which he does, sucking in a fast breath.

It's pretty loose and he isn't as high up as he wants to. Murphy shoves his nose right up to Connor's nape, breathing in the sweat, the sex, smoke and _him_ , and draws his hips back to push in again, higher up this time, rubbing over the Mark, over his hole, bumping against the backside of Connor's balls. “Cross yer ankles.”

Connor does, moaning out a shocked sound and trying to curve down to see until Murphy gets him to lie still and fucking take it, then Connor obeys and pulls his balls out of the way to feel the head of his cock pushing through. “Fuck,” he rasps, craning his neck down and ghosting his fingers over the tip. “Fuck.”

“I am,” Murphy says.

“Not the real thing.”

Plastered against his back, Murphy rolls his hips and closes his eyes to savor the feeling, the rush, the certainty, the _winning_ , somewhat dark. This is fucking it, he'll never share this, it's his now. “It is,” he says belatedly, nibbling at Connor's neck just because it's within reach.

“It's not,” Connor whispers, sounding wrecked and pressing back against him.

“It is. I'm fucking ye, Connor. Now shut yer gob.”

With every thrust, Connor tilts his hips back further, curling into himself despite Murphy trying to hold him still until the head of his cock catches on Connor's rim, not unexpected, and Connor juts his arse out for real. “Murph, I'm-”

“Not like this. Yer already there again? Con.” Murphy pulls him flush against his chest and lets his hand wander to find Connor hard again. He wraps his hand around it, hips jerking forward a bit more harshly than planned when Connor hisses. “I'll do it properly. Soon. Can't just do it now, it'll hurt no matter how much ye-”

“That's not-”

But it is. This thing, this fantasy that isn't one, must've been everything for him. Enough to keep him going for years, and he needs it so badly Murphy almost loses his mind with the idea. Connor never wanted anyone but him, and this is what he thought about, maybe it's for reassurance too, maybe he doesn't trust the idea of them having _made_ it without it.

Murphy swallows. “Hold on,” he rasps, letting go of Connor's cock to grip his hip instead. He thrusts forward, fast and harsh, letting Connor's moans wash over him, allowing the feeling to consume him until it's everything he knows, until a thought is in his head, suddenly: he _never_ would've wanted to share Connor. Never. When he fucked girls, it was all right, it was just something one does. If Connor would've done it, he would've gone off the deep end, probably barging in and demanding answers or some stupid shite like it, even before he fell for him completely.

He never would've known how to share him, and they'll never have to get ancient and find their Soulmate just short before it's all over. They'll never have to register to look for their other half, all these endless databases, and there won't ever be expectations about money or family or friends, no uncertainty and awkward first-touching to confirm whether it's the one.

He knew how his handwriting looked before he learned to write. He's had it all from the start.

This is everything.

Murphy fucks in, rough, and comes with the edge of Connor's nail catching on the head of his cock, fucking irritating and weirdly hot. Hands still shaking, he turns Connor on his back and smears through his own come, feeling pleasantly disgusting by now. He shoves his tongue back into Connor's mouth for a short, messy kiss. “Only this until we get proper slick- Don't look at me like that.” Connor rolls up his hips, eyes almost black in the darkness. “I'll fucking do it properly, just not fucking yet. Ye hear me?”

It doesn't seem like it, but Connor's fingers leave nice, red imprints on his arm when he pushes in the first finger, and then a second. He's so fucking out of it, almost clawing at him, that Murphy is sure Connor wouldn't want to fuck _him_ even if he were properly stretched and ready.

He's never done this for pleasure, only for stretching - one memorable time with a lass who didn't like the idea of blood on them. Afterward, he's beat his cock over the idea for weeks, but feeling Connor clench in bursts around his fingers is something else entirely, especially when he fits in third, panting against Connor's lips in a halfhearted attempt to kiss again, or when Connor arches his back, clamping down so hard his fingers lose feeling for a second.

The come is drying, not allowing him to push in as nicely as he wants to, and it must hurt at least a bit, and Connor couldn't, even if he wanted to, spread his legs wider. Foot hooked behind Murphy's knee, he pushes up, craning his neck for another kiss.

Murphy inches back. “Almost there?”

Connor whines, following after him.

Pulling out with a wet sound and Connor clamping around the movement, Murphy hurries between Connor's legs, fucking messy with smeared and half-dried come from both of them. To get in deeper, he pushes in only two of his fingers and gently rubs over the little nub making Connor lose control of his voice and limps. Tongue against his name, Murphy keeps thrusting, and with Connor's hand around his own cock, it's not long; he knows, the feeling of it rushes through the Mark—and Connor is there. He's with him as if it were his own, and it's different, and it's the same.

It's Connor's feelings through the Mark, pushing inside his own head. For a moment, it's them entirely. Not Connor or Murphy, not halves or Soulmates. It's one. A whole.

*

_And when he had made an end of speaking unto Saul, the soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul. Then Jonathan and David made a covenant: for he loved him as his own soul. And Jonathan put off the robe that was upon him, and gave it David, and his garments, even to his sword, and to his bow, and to his girdle._

Absentmindedly, he scratches at the faint scars in the crook of his arm. Connor sees and pretends he doesn't, he bumps against his shoulder instead, huffing and rolling his eyes. Shades or not, he knows.

Somehow, it still helps.

The pain isn't gone and he hasn't stopped wishing himself back in time, but now he knows that if he were sent back, he'd lose a lot more than he thought only a few weeks ago, and with the distance of an ocean between the now and the memories, the hurt doesn't seem as bad anymore. He thinks he can grieve in a more natural way. Maybe not on his own, but he won't be on his own; Connor will be there, knowing, huffing at him when he thinks about chemical-induced sleep, about blankness and drifting. About substituting so readily it should scare Connor away, and instead he's just there. His metaphorical shield.

He thinks, maybe, it's all right now.

“How long yer planning to let it ring now? 'm fucking hungry and these boxes won't unpack themselves.”

_For he loved him as his own soul_

No one, not even back during the preparation for the sacrament, could convince him David and Jonathan weren't Soulmates. Not many tried, but it's obvious, and it's been ages, and they weren't sent to Hell and they weren't punished and they weren't frowned upon.

Fucking Soulmates, the both of them

The priest - a different one - said it was just a story, but what does he know? It's one story of many defining his life. There aren't many differences between them, Murphy thinks, out on the street in the windy sun. He tried - they tried - to guide people to the true path just like the priest did.

Maybe he still does, but they are done. At least for now.

“Hello?”

Murphy grips the phone tighter, the plastic slippery with something disgusting, and nudges Connor with his shoulder. “Ma,” he says, “It's Murphy. Connor's here, too.”

She starts.

Pulling a face against the volume of her tirade, Connor crowds in to listen, reaching around him and sliding his palm over his free hand. It's warm, the skin almost soft. With their new work, it will soon get rougher again.

Murphy entwines their fingers and holds on.

 


End file.
